


Fracture

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [6]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Relationships, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Gen, canon/original character relationship, mentions of/displays of self-mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4487547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The happy portrait of life is beautiful, but it is also fragile.  All it takes is a little fracture at the corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> As light-hearted as "Obscurity" was, I'm afraid this one goes from light to...not-so-light. My apologies in advance to you all.

October comes and goes rather quickly. Soon, autumn will pass, and they will be only a matter of weeks away from not only winter but also graduation, for those who are joining her in receiving their due honors early. There is a soft buzz of excitement throughout the campus, regarding the upcoming ceremony; she supposes she shares their enthusiasm, to an extent. It isn’t as though she ever had a doubt she would graduate, and do so early, and it would be a great life achievement. She knows her intellect is, well, impressive, by common standards. The greater issue at hand is more what will happen after she is graduated. Obviously, she will need employment. She is an adult now, and adults get jobs. Adults take care of themselves and their needs, rather than wait for someone else to do it. She is young, but she is educated. Surely someone will take her on as an employee?

The last day of October passes without much incident. No one around her knows what event occurred on this day, and she doesn’t make a point to tell them. This was never an honored occasion in her household, not for thirteen years, and if her parents weren’t inclined to remember, she shouldn’t expect strangers to do so either.

When she gets back to her room, it takes three seconds—enough time for her to step inside and start to close the door behind her—before she sees the large box resting on her bed. A large silver box with an ivory ribbon wrapped around the top for decoration. She takes another three seconds to consider it, and its presence in her room, and then slowly pushes the door closed before approaching with careful and thoughtful steps.

After more consideration—wondering if this is some sort of prank played by the other girls in her dormitory—she decides to peel the lid free of the box and see just what is inside. At first glance, silver tissue paper greets her curious eyes, and then, beneath the thin layers, something else. Something soft and silken and smooth to the touch.

She pushes the paper aside, needing to confirm with her eyes what her inquiring fingertips have suggested. As she does, as her hands slowly gather the prize inside out from its confinement, her heart flutters, inexplicably, and her breath catches within the lungs.

A dress. An elegant, beautiful dress made of silk, with tasteful accents of sequins along the hem and scattered along the sheer fabric of both sleeves. She’s never seen such a color before: a shade of turquoise perhaps inspired by the ocean depths. As she follows a childlike impulse and pulls the fabric close to her frame, examining the look in the mirror, the delight is almost too much to bear. She has never had something like this before. Something so elegant and yet simple in its design and so very much her.

She stares at her reflection for a few long minutes, eyes drinking in every detail with awe and a smile that almost hurts her cheeks, and then her gaze catches sight of a little white card lying on the floor. It must have fallen out with the dress. And there’s a message, written in blue ink and in handwriting she recognizes immediately.

_**Not everyone forgot. Happy Birthday.** _

***

The day of her December graduation is, well, cold. No snow is on the ground, but judging by the clouds above and the rapidly-dropping temperatures, snow is very likely on its way. The request that all female graduates be in skirts or dresses was not necessarily well-received, given the low temperatures and the general difficulties involved in walking through snow and on ice in high heels. The cold, however, does not bother her. Having been exposed to the elements on a frequent basis, usually without the proper clothing coverage, has at least conceived this one advantage.

She takes her time getting ready for the evening, her earlier indifference to the occasion long-since faded with the receipt of a beautiful dress meant just for this occasion. The fabric ripples and slides soft and smooth over her skin as she slips within its folds, and when she pulls the zipper secure up her back, it fits like a glove. She should, of course, be a little concerned that Victor picked her size so well, but she isn’t. It is the utmost display of ungratefulness to nitpick a gift.

For the first time in many, many years, she greets her reflection with a true smile. The dress glitters when she shifts here and there, and the black tights and heels complete the image perfectly. After half an hour of trying to decide the best style, she’s pleased with the final choice for her hair: soft curls falling loose down her back, halfway drawn up with a clip, but mostly free and untamed. It is, in a way, a replication of her high school graduation, but the reflection and portrait is different this time. She looks happy, she feels happy, and she can’t settle the frantic beating of her heart.

Almost everyone arrives on campus and files into the auditorium with multiple layers and heavy winter coats. The room is packed full; she can see James and Barbara about halfway back, on the aisle seat, and when their eyes meet, he gives her a little wave and wink. She returns the gestures with the appropriate smile and discrete nod. He’s out of his street uniform and sporting a tan-colored business suit; Barbara is in a simple but elegant dress and fur-trimmed coat. Iris thinks he looks rather good in a suit, far more so than his street uniform, and from the way Barbara is stroking fingertips over his shoulders and lapels, she agrees.

As she walks along the stage, answering the summons when her name is called, her eyes scan the room, looking for another pair of blue eyes to meet her seeking gaze, but there is none to be found. She doesn’t let her disappointment show, even though she feels it deep within her gut like a blow from a fist. The sheer enormity of her disappointment unnerves her. Victor owes her nothing, he doesn’t need to be there, and it’s far more likely that he wouldn’t be. He has better places to be than a college graduation ceremony.

But still, she would have liked for him to have come.

When everything is over, she and James meet for a very short farewell. She accepts his congratulations with a nod and the smile she’s had perfect for years, and looks appropriately humbled when Barbara tells her how lovely she looks tonight and how she’s become quite a lovely young woman. When they’ve both left, retired after a long day, she slips out of the heavy black graduation gown, leaves it unattended in the dressing room, and then leaves, without any fuss and without any additional greetings from fellow students or professors and faculty. She wants to be alone for a little while.

The walk back to her dormitory is silent, and for once, it’s not such a terrible thing. She can be alone with her own thoughts, the dark skies, and the cold winter chill. Halfway there, it begins to snow, and the moon peeks out from behind the clouds. The flakes catch in her hair and on her eyelashes and along the trim of her coat. The cold feels good. The snow makes her smile. The moon…the moon does something else to her. Something else entirely.

Her room is dark when she unlocks the door and steps inside, but this time she doesn’t immediately turn on the light. Her curtains are open and she can see his silhouette in the silver rays peeking through and painting streaks across the bed and walls and floor.

She closes the door and locks it, and after a moment’s consideration, reaches for the light switch. But his voice stops her, with a quiet but firm, “Leave it off.”

“No.” she says, equally soft but also determined, and flicks on the desk lamp for a soft golden glow in her room. “I want to see you.”

He doesn’t scold her for the defiance, which is a little surprising, but when she finds his eyes and sees the flame sparking to life in the gaze, she knows he didn’t really want to be left blind. She’s wearing his gift, and wearing it very well, and that’s not a view he wants to lose. 

“I looked for you.” She murmurs, fingers finding their way into her hair and loosening the clip. “Were you even there?”

“If I don’t want to be seen, no one will see me.” He answers, with the hint of a smirk on his tongue. “Not even you, sweet girl.”

She answers with a quiet, wordless sound, and begins to step into her bathroom. But, once again, he stops her.

“Come here.”

It’s an odd request, not just because of the words but the tone in which he speaks them. It sounds…different. Not in an unsettling way, but just…different. The kind of tone he’s used only once before with her, and she knows, beyond a doubt, that he isn’t to be denied when he uses it. It is a command, nothing less.

She obeys, as she often does, without much additional thought attached, but stops when she catches sight of his gaze again. She knows this look. It means there is something else he wants, some other thought on his mind, and there is something—something she can’t quite read—in his eyes. And she doesn’t like not being able to read him. It is…unnerving.

Then, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear it, he speaks again. “Take it off.”

Approximately fifteen different thoughts collide with one another, leaving her disoriented and speechless. She can only stare at him, looking for any hint in his gaze that this is a lie, that he won’t do this to her, that she heard incorrectly. But there is none. He’s serious, and he’s lifting his eyebrow at her in a way that tells her, quite plainly, he’s waiting.

“No.” she whispers, voice breaking, head shaking as she steps back. “No. I cannot. I will not.”

“Why not?”

His voice is lacking the displeasure she was expecting; she’d thought, perhaps, he would snap at her, tell her to not question and certainly to not refuse him, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even move, just sits there and looks at her and waits for an answer.

It’s only after her hand has drifted down over her stomach and lingered there for a moment too long that she realizes, even without a word, that she’s given him an answer. Not the full answer, but enough that he tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, and he slowly rises from his seat on her mattress and takes a step forward. She instinctively steps back, the hand on her stomach clenching and wrinkling the fabric.

“Victor,” she tries, voice barely a whisper, her other hand outstretched, both pleading and trying to keep distance between them; she feels like a rabbit negotiating for mercy from a ravenous fox, “Victor, please…”

“Sweet girl,” he breathes, stepping closer; she steps back and finds her spine against the desk, “have you been hiding something from me?”

She can’t see her face, but she can only imagine how petrified she looks. Her face probably very white, her lips quivering slightly with each drawn breath, the veins in her throat throbbing as her heart pumps blood faster and harder than it should, and now both hands clenching tight over her stomach. She’s quivering from head to foot, and she can’t seem to stop. This is more emotion than she’s accustomed to, and worse yet, she’s completely out of control. She has no control over him, over the situation, and now she doesn’t even have control over her own body.

This is not how the evening was supposed to go. Why… _why_ does he have to know? Why can’t he just—?

“Victor,” she whispers again, “Please…do not. Do not open this door. Please.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.” He says, obviously undeterred. “What’s under here,” he finally draws close enough that he can rest two fingers atop her hands, folded protectively as they are, “that you don’t want me to see?”

She shakes her head, biting down on her lips before releasing a broken exhale. “Please. Victor, please…just do not.”

His brow lifts even higher, and he closes the distance to mere inches. Suddenly, he looks much taller than her, like he did when they first met, and his eyes are dark without moonlight to catch and burn within their depths. “Show me.”

_Oh God…_ “No—”

“Show me, Iris.” He repeats, cutting over her protest. “Show me of your own free will, or I’ll do it myself.” A short step forward brings him almost flush against her, and his voice lowers distinctly, dangerously, a tiger’s growl. “Don’t make me force you.”

It takes another minute—a short pause while she tries to think of an escape only to realize there isn’t one—and then, hands still shaking violently, she reaches behind and finds the zipper to her dress. A tug downward begins to part the fabric, loosen it from her frame, and by the time she’s gotten the zipper down to her lower spine, it’s falling down her hips and sliding to the floor. Her hands instinctively defy, once again, moving to cover the exposed skin, but his are quicker, and once he has her wrists in a grip, she knows it’s a lost cause. He can see exactly what he wants to see.

He’s sure she would rather he say something immediately, pass quick judgment just to get it over with, but he doesn’t. He remains perfectly still, without a word, and lets his eyes run carefully over every inch she’s just exposed. Not her chest, but the flat, slightly concave shape of her stomach. Pale skin, a smooth canvas, interrupted by a series of small, curiously-formed scars. Against the porcelain of her flesh, they look dark pink, though they are aged and not very new; some are short, like puncture wounds, but others are a little deeper. At first, he thinks they resemble the kind of markings one would find on skin that’s been repeatedly punctured by a needle. But these aren’t thin enough to be made by a needle, and they have a distinct shape to them. A little arch, curved at the ends, almost like…

His eyes shift to her hand, caught within his grip, and he slowly lift the fingers to his eye level, ignoring the way she swallows hard and bites down on her lips again. Delicate oval-shaped fingernails, smooth, long, and just the right tool to have made those marks.

“You did this to yourself.” He says slowly, quietly, noticing the way she refuses his meet his eye as the words meet air and linger between them. “Didn’t you?”

She closes her eyes again, inhales and exhales, then opens them after a short pause. “You see what others do not, Victor. You always have.” 

Her voice is soft, and it sounds like she’s trying to not put, or allow, too much emotion in her tone. “You cannot tell me you did not see it. Beneath the porcelain doll with no thought of her own, no response to the knife at her throat…tell me honestly you did not see the anger. The hatred. The kind of rage that fuels storms and destroys all sense of serenity and beauty.”

A pause, then, her mouth twists into a bitter expression; it looks wrong on her face, distorting her otherwise smooth and delicate features. “It was, perhaps, the most honest emotion I felt as a child.” She continues. “Surely you at least suspected.”

“Suspicions mean nothing,” he replies, “unless you have proof. Or the responsible party shows you the truth.”

“You could have asked, just as easily as I could have.” Her retort is cool, matching her gaze, replacing the earlier tremors and anxiety. “You choose to remain silent, just as I did. But we both know your eyes saw and your mind suspected, just as mine did.” 

She pauses again, eyes dropping down to his left arm. “Or will you lie to me now, Victor? Say you did not notice when I avoided bending one way or another, for the pressure it would place on my stomach. Just I did not notice when your sleeve was stained…from the inside.”

“You want to know?” he whispers, voice much tighter than he’d like; he’s following impulse, responding before he pauses to think more carefully about what’s coming out of his mouth and the consequences likely to transpire as a result. “Ask.”

He supposes he expected her to refuse, make some excuses, or something along those lines. But, once again, she doesn’t follow expectations or assumptions. Instead, she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even blink in the face of his accusations, but locks her gaze with his and responds without waver. “Show me.”

He has to release her and put some distance between them, solely for the sake of proper movement, but not much. Without looking away, without blinking and breaking the shared gaze, matching her, playing her equal as she so often plays his, he sheds his jacket, drops it to the side, and slowly rolls up his sleeve to the elbow.

It’s then that she breaks the connection and looks back at his exposed arm. Part of him expects a flinch of horror, possibly childish disgust and revulsion; the rest of him is more confident and self-assured. Someone driven by pure emotion to rip into their own flesh, with their bare hands, cannot be so easily disgusted by more scars.

He doesn’t expect her to touch them, but she does. Feather-light brushes of the fingertips, tracing each one with slow deliberation, eyes never looking away or cowering from the sight. Her eyes don’t blink, not even once; the look on her face says there is nothing more important than him and these scars. She touches each one more than once, as though she’s trying to memorize the feel of every scar.

“One for each.” She says, very quietly; it’s not a question, but he replies nonetheless with an affirmative hum and jerk of the head. She nods, maybe to him but probably more to herself, and continues her gestures. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to remain grounded and focused and not swaying away under the feel of each caress. Skin which has been damaged, several times, sometimes before one scar actually had time to properly heal, is extremely sensitive. And from the way she doesn’t stop, he can’t help but suspect she has a very clear idea of what she’s doing to him.

When he reopens his eyes, just in time to see her bend forward to rest her lips against one collection of five, he knows he’s right. His eyes close once again, rolling back slightly in his head, as every nerve sparks to life and sends heat coursing fast through his system. It’s disorienting, dizzying. It’s intoxicating.

_No._ Control. _He_ is in control. _Not her._

“Stop.” He says, breaking the silence sharply and in a tone he almost never uses with her. The message is received, and she immediately steps back, looking startled and maybe even a little flustered. She offers a short apology, quickly retrieves her robe and wraps herself tightly within its protection. She settles on her bed and tucks herself against the corner. The moonlight drifts through the open curtains, and he can see her face more clearly now. Her lower lip is quivering slightly, and her throat is tight with each breath. There’s no trace of tears in her eyes, but he knows her and he knows the little signs. She’s upset. She’s very upset.

“Iris,” he begins, but she holds up and hand and shakes her head.

“I should not have done that.” She says, very quietly, swallowing tightly, eyes determinedly staring out the window. “I am sorry. I should have considered…” she pauses, shakes her head again, and releases a slow breath. “I should not have done that.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Iris.” He says, as though it’s a ridiculous notion and it should never have even crossed her mind. “They’re not sensitive.”

The lie is little, meaningless, and thus falls from his tongue with ease and without any hesitation. He waits for a sign of relief, or a quiet sigh and nod, but nothing comes. She does look at stare at him, but it’s in complete silence. And suddenly, without any definite or concrete evidence behind the notion, he can’t help but feel she knows he just lied to her. Rational thought tries to dismiss the notion, declare it ridiculous and impossible, but he can’t shake the feeling. Somehow, she knows.

No, she can’t. It’s impossible. It’s illogical. People lie all the time. People lie to her all the time. It’s all-too common in this city. Everyone does it. Even he does it, and while he doesn’t do it often, he’s still very good at it. There’s no way she could possibly know he lied to her.

Then why is she still staring at him?

When the silence becomes too much for even him to handle, and she continues to stare at him without a word, he turns and leaves. He can’t make her talk—well, he could, but he won’t. Even if he did make her talk, there’s no guarantee she’d tell him just what it is about a harmless lie—that she can’t possibly know is actually a lie—that would make her shut down this way. It doesn’t make sense, but he doubts she’d ever explain it to him. Not until she felt like it.

She doesn’t ask him to stop, to come back and let her explain. She doesn’t say anything. And she doesn’t run after him. And he has a very unfortunate suspicion that she did, in fact, hear the lie.

_No._ He’s in control. And she will come back to him. She always comes back to him.


End file.
